University of Virginia Library

There sat I on that entrance-bar, and glean'd
My thrifty limbs some ease-ears, while I lean'd
Forwards to think. No wandering breath of thought
The minutes lately to my mind had brought;
But now an inner wind came, and wide stirr'd
Thought's branches in me, and once more I heard
The rustlings of fancy's foliage;
Whereat my mind 'gan fill with life, like cage
Wherein, like birds, glad young thoughts fluttering sung,
Till with the noise that aviary rung
Of strivings sweet, melodious, to think
Of them who 'twixt this neighbourhood a link
Have welded, and the Muses; to recall
Our local Classics' names, books, fates, and all.
Thus musing, sudden I a footing-sound
Heard in the grass; and,—my eye turning round
To ask its silent question,—then beheld
A youth, slow pacing, unawares impell'd
By blind thought, and ignoring all the while
Me vaulted on the saddle of the stile,
Till with a knee up-bent, seeking to pass
My three-ribb'd horse, he lifted from the grass
His meditative eyes. And then he made
More haste, as if to escape some ambuscade.
Meanwhile I had determined to invade
His privacy, and did so;—by degrees,
Walking and talking, we were both at ease:
Till the high boughs that shadow'd us began
To be the boughs whose roots deep underran
The very eastern entrance of the grove;
While, Kirke White so desiring, I unwove
The history of those newer names which made
These trees to shed of more than trees the shade.
Such interest was shown in this rehearsing,
And we so all-absorb'd in our conversing,
As to arrive unwitting in our walk
So near a troop, as let them almost stalk
And poach upon the manor of our talk:—
At whom, intently looking, ‘See,’ I said,
‘These are ev'n they of whom just now we made
Such pleasant mention!’
First to lead the van,
Miller, the basket-maker, was the man:
Him follow'd Spencer Hall; and, them succeeding,
Came Mary Howitt, with a warm hand leading
Your old friend Mary Leeson tenderly;
Behind which gentle twain what eye to see
Charles Pemberton could miss, and William Howitt?
And others too, if this tale might avow it.
These being introduced to, soon began
Our talk to gambol, coney-like, and ran
Its wild feet into merriest of vagaries;
And not a laugh was heartier than Mary's,—
Who, though the years that to her being went
Tow'rd ripening her brain had influence lent
But nine times, yet was very seldom slow
To comprehend whatever wit might flow.
'Twas little Mary too whose watchful eye
In its blue, eager, happy vagrancy,
Ne'er wearied of observing, first espied
One who came down the grove, dark-hair'd, deep-eyed,
And groundward-looking; but, I will be bound,
Not seeing aught he look'd at on the ground.
‘Who's that, that throws a shade on th' air around,’
Ask'd White, ‘as if he bore clinging about him
Some cloud which loved and could not live without him?’
‘Why! I declare, it is our own good friend,’
Said Mary Howitt, glad; ‘tell him to bend
His steps this way.’ Towards us then he came,
And, through my previous mention of the same,
Kirke White heard gladly Philip Bailey's name.
The greeting o'er, ourselves once more we bent
Over the rising greenness, as intent
To reach almost the far head of the grove;
And still in merry guise the talk would rove,
And the glad minutes danced away full fast
Until we came to the top stile at last.

There ever paused a host of living green
On the cliff's side; with silent, solemn mien
The warrior-trees seem'd up the height to press
Upon the foe, in southward earnestness,
Shaking their green crests o'er their rugged mail,
Or laying them along the southern gale;
And halting, as their front ranks were well planted
Where the hill's cope a level footing granted:
While the advanced guard, thrown across the way,
Open'd, between, a green floor to the day.
We, too, stood silent; for each strove to seek
To hear, feel, see,—do anything but speak
Where Silence seem'd to hush, and stand apart
To listen to the beat of its own heart:
There through the half-leaved boughs came broken gleams
Of sky with glory flooded, streams on streams;
And we all stood at gaze, nor could control,
Nor would, the exaltation of the soul;
For heaven's azure calmness did but lean
Serenely o'er what was no less serene;
And the glad sunshine in the yellow west
Smiled on its counterpart in every breast.

At length, our tongues that spell could bear to break,
Needing relief; and something some one spake
About a conclave, whereat it was meet
Festus should take the presidential seat.—
‘Ay, Festus for our president!’ we said
All in one breath; but Festus shook his head,
And motion'd that Kirke White should take the chair
As being the oldest Clifton Classic there.
‘Hear, hear!’ we said, with cheers; and though in spite
Of protestation from the modest White,
Miller and Hall, with many a merry smile,
Bore him and his resistance to the stile,
Where under strong persuasion he relented,
And finally to sit thereon consented.
Against the elm hard by, her mother's knee
Press'd little Mary; and the green turf we;
And after brief discourse, it was agreed
Some homespun thing each should recite or read.

First, Mary's mother spoke, when by request
Of all she to comply was strongly press'd:—
Perhaps, she said, she might, not being able
To show aught written, tell a simple fable;
And then, with somewhat of apology
For what she call'd its childishness, which we
Scarcely concurred in—she went on to say
That once upon a time,—though many a day
Had slept beneath the mossy coverlet
Of Time since then,—speedwell, the earth's wee pet,
The little blue-eyed darling of the flowers
(Blue-eyed, like Mary), had pass'd all its hours
In a sweet morning, grieving; hung its head;
And almost thought it might as well be dead
As live on so, no benefit supplying
To any living thing; and saying, sighing,
‘The others may be useful, but I can
Do good, neither to insect nor to man.’
Thereby at length there went a maiden pale,
The woful heroine of a woful tale;
Flerceness was in her heart; and, in her eyes,
Harsh imprecation of the holy skies:—
Till the subduing sight of that calm flower
Turn'd her untearful pride into a shower
Of wholesome grief, and left her once more free
To pray for strength to bear. ‘But still’ (said she)
‘The little blue-eyed baby of the flowers,
Germander speedwell, pass'd the morning hours
In weariness and grief, and hung its head,
And almost thought it might as well be dead
As live on so;—saying, “Alas, I can
Be useful, nor to insect, nor to man!”'
—She ceased: but Mary, still the tale pursuing,
Ask'd,—‘Did it ever know the good 'twas doing?
And what became of it?’—‘I cannot tell,’
Was all the answer.—‘Ah,’ said Hall, ‘how well
That little tale deserves to be repeated
To many a weary soul, unkindly treated
By age or illness. And how true, that when
We bloom to God, we thereby bloom to men,
Although we may not dream the good we do!’

Then Kirke White said to William Howitt, ‘You,
Sir, are the next, to give us tale or song;’—
Who answer'd, he would not detain us long,
Having no tale; but just give an exact
Statement of what, we might depend, was fact.
It was (and here methought I might espy
A sort of under-twinkle in his eye)
Touching the singular catastrophe
That once befel the cuckoo; for that he
Formerly had but one long shout, in lieu
Of the two short ones which so well we knew;
Till fate to take his voice's penny came,
And gave him change in halfpence for the same.
For one day, as it happen'd, Mistress Eve,
Cutting her hair, her scissors chanced to leave
Where, too, the hungry cuckoo chanced to get them,
And, rather fancying he might like them, ate them;
But the twin blades, his throat in passing through,
Unfortunately snipp'd his shout in two.

Our laughter over, we requested next
Of Pemberton, some song, or storied text,
Until he said, a fable in plain dress
He would attempt; yet 'twas for Mary's sake;
Not from the thought that we should interest take
In such a trifle;—then went on to say
That oft, at what we thought was night,—though they
Know nothing there but one long, happy day,—
There was a feast, for holy gladness given
At souls redeem'd, among the sons of heaven;
And that at all those festivals divine
The angels drank the smiles of God for wine;
And that the stars were crystal cups, whereby
Their awful contents shone adown the sky;
And that the moon was the great chalice there
Wherefrom each lesser one received its share.
He said, too, that the angels oft conceived
Something that would be grief, if angels grieved;
A dry tear, shed because man, wayward child
Of sin, from those glad banquets was exiled;
And that the broad sheet-lightning, which at nights
Streams down upon us, and our souls affrights,
Was but a goblet of that awful wine
Pour'd out by one of those kind ones divine,
Thinking a happy favour to bestow,
Unknown to th' others, upon men below:—
And that it was our sin turn'd what was sent
To make us glad, to terror's instrument;
So terrible, so full of painful fear
To sinful eyes do all things pure appear:
Wherefore, he argued, evermore we should
Strive to become more wise, and pure, and good,
That so in all such favours we might see
The blessings they were really meant to be.

During the telling of this simple tale
I had been watching little Mary's pale
Most earnest face: open'd were her soft eyes
On Pemberton, wide with their blue surprise;
And when the story had just breathed its last,
A sideway glance on the far sky she cast,
As if ev'n then some angel might be shedding
Some such remembrance kind:—then, overspreading
Her face with streamy smiles, to soul deep-wed,
‘O yes, we will be good!’ the young enthusiast said.
Whereat a happy smile flow'd o'er each face;
And 'twixt the kiss and the half-hid embrace
Which Mary's mother gave her, I could note
Of thanks a garland through the air to float
To Pemberton, for his high brow's possessing,
Wov'n of the flowers of a mother's blessing.

Meanwhile a paper had been dropp'd beside
The stile by Kirke White unawares,—espied
By us, who saw th' inscription on its face
Was that of the old legend of the place.
Eager, we seized it, and when White had shown
No wish to read it, it not being his own,
Into this service Pemberton impress'd,
Agreed to give it us at our request;
And his good-nature straightway, as a bow,
To this result, with powerful to-and-fro,
To the bass-viol of his voice did go:—